Dodger & Company: Abandoned
by DodgerNYC
Summary: A short prequel to the movie. Dodger is abandoned to the streets by his poor mother, Annie, at a mere eight-weeks-old. Frightened and alone, the puppy must figure out how to survive in the Big Apple. How will he eat? Where will he sleep? As Dodger grows up in the cruel city, he will learn street savoir faire and shape himself into a dog who will take New York City by storm.
1. Abandoned

Ch. 01: Abandoned

A dump truck blared its horn and screeched to a halt, giving the mutt just enough time to leap off the road and onto the sidewalk. The vehicle sped away through a puddle, splashing the dog with freezing water. Still, better to be chilled to the bone than flattened under a truck tire.

The soaked mutt trudged off the sidewalk, heading for the safety and solitude of a narrow alleyway. There was trash lining the gravelly floor, and the walls were decorated with vulgar graffiti, but to the dog, the alley looked like heaven.

She used the last of her energy to shake the water out of her fur, then collapsed onto a nearby garbage bag. No sharp edges poked into her back from beneath the plastic – she'd gotten lucky tonight. The dog couldn't smell any food in the trash, though, so that was disappointing.

But it would do. For what she had to do, this alleyway was more than she could ask for. The mutt sighed and placed a paw on her very, very rounded stomach.

Some hours later, her five puppies were birthed on a black garbage bag.

It was a cold winter's night in New York City, and the mutt held her pups close to her chest. Giving birth in the wintertime was never a happy occasion. One of her pups was already beginning to shiver. She held him closest.

The mother gazed at her newborns long and hard. They were all terrier mutts like herself, with little to no traits from their father. That was usually the case with her pups. But now that she thought about it, she didn't even know _who_ the father of this particular litter was. It was impossible to keep track.

Of her five pups, none of them shared her sandy-brown fur color. There was a girl with white fur, a boy with a dark brown coat, a gray and brown-spotted girl, and another girl with gray fur and no spots.

Finally, there was the boy who had been shivering. He had a mess of white and brown fur, with three dark brown spots on his back identical to her own and gray on his legs and muzzle.

She was filled with the overwhelming urge to name her pups, to love them and cradle them and give them each a unique, fitting name. But she fought it. The mutt knew how this would all turn out, and if she named them, if she got attached...

She had made that mistake before. The first litter she'd ever bore on the streets all received names. One by one, those pups died of malnourishment, and she'd had to erase their names from her memory. But she hadn't learned. The second litter was also named, and it was the same thing all over again. Not enough scraps to feed them. Not enough milk. Her third litter had been the last with names, and they too passed away – all except one.

He had been stronger than the others, healthier, and for some stupid reason, she'd actually thought he had a chance to live. But even after all his littermates died, she just couldn't provide for him. The mother had ended up leaving him on the streets, because at that point, she couldn't bear to watch another pup die in her arms. His name stuck with her to this day – her poor little Monks.

Now, she couldn't help but look at the white, gray, and brown pup and think an absolutely crazy thought – might he survive? He _was_ a little larger than the others, a little stronger... but she refused to get her hopes up. She knew how this would end for them.

Even so, she desperately wanted to name them. If not all, then just him. The strong one. She gazed at him, thought about it... and she couldn't do it.

She remembered when her mother had given her a name. It had been way back in that cozy little Long Island auto shop, so many years ago. They had journeyed to Manhattan in search of a better life, but life had only gotten worse for her. She'd quickly been separated from her mother and left to grow up on her own in the big city.

And still, the name stuck. She loved to think back to her puppyhood days, when her mother would whisper it to her before bedtime. It was the only thing she could ever really claim as her own. Her name.

_Annie_.

* * *

><p>Eight weeks later, Annie was lying in a damp and dirty alley somewhere in the Bronx. It was another cold night, and winter had only gotten worse for the city. There was no snow yet, but the air had dropped very near freezing and the street puddles had iced over, leaving little to no water for them to drink.<p>

The only pup sleeping beside her was the white, gray, and brown-furred male. He had been the strong one among his siblings, but by himself, he looked to be on the brink of starvation.

Her first pup to die had been the white-furred girl. She lived for about two weeks before the cold got to her. Annie thought that with only four pups, she _might_ be able to feed them all – oh, how she was wrong. Every pitiful scrap of food she got her paws on had been given to her pups. Thus, she herself was half-starved, and her milk had quickly begun to run out.

Refusing the other three pups milk had been the hardest thing she'd ever had to do in her life, but she knew it was her strongest pup's best shot. The white, gray, and brown male fed and grew, while the remaining three puppies starved, whimpered, and slowly died.

But tonight, eight weeks after she'd given birth, her milk had gone dry. She was left with _one_ pup, and her milk had still been all used up. Annie shut her eyes tight and tried not to cry, because she knew from experience what this meant for her. For her little boy.

She forced herself to her feet, leaving her last pup sleeping against the hard brick wall. Annie was careful not to wake him. That would make this all so much worse, seeing the look in his eyes. As it was, he was sound asleep. He had a tiny smile on his face – perhaps he was dreaming? She hoped he was.

Annie thought back to a saying her own Momma used to whisper in her ear while she slept. When she woke up the next morning, Annie would always remember hearing those words in her sleep.

She leaned down and whispered those words in her pup's ear now.

"Keep your dream alive. Dreaming is still how the strong survive."

And then she ran. Annie had to get herself out of that alleyway as fast as she could, because if she dared to look back, even one time... She had to do this. It was awful of her and she was so selfish and weak and she had to be the worst mother in all of Manhattan for doing this, but she _had to_.

He was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it. Annie had to leave him, because if she held one more pup in her arms and felt his heart slow to a stop, she would break.

But Annie hadn't made it a block away from the alley before...

"...Mom?"

Her pup was standing three feet away from her, the sleepiness showing in his eyes and the starvation on his body. His ribs were visible enough to be counted. She loved him so, _so_ much, but looking at him now, Annie knew he would never make it.

"Where are you going, Mom?"

She'd seen him. She'd seen him and she couldn't possibly go now.

"Baby, please... don't follow me. I'm going away now, and you can't come."

Annie couldn't do it. Couldn't do it. Couldn't do it.

"But Mom..."

She had been right before. The look in his little brown eyes – the confusion, the hurt, and the never ever being able to understand – was more than she could bear.

"...Goodbye."

But she had also been wrong. Refusing to feed her other three puppies had not been the hardest thing she'd ever had to do in her life. She'd let her other pups die so he could live, but it hadn't made a difference. It was all the same in the end.

Annie had left her poor Monks to die this very same way, along with a handful of other pups over the years, and now, she was leaving this one. She doubted any of those past puppies had actually survived. Last she'd seen them, they'd all been bone-thin and whimpering in hunger.

Did that make her a terrible person, for having deserted her child not once, but several times in her life? But then, what kind of question was that? _Of course_ she was a terrible person.

She deserved this. No mother could leave so many pups and not warrant a horrible life, full of hardship and starvation and _so many_ savage street dogs forcing her to... Everything they'd done, she deserved.

He did not deserve this, but she certainly did. She deserved that look in his eyes.

Annie walked farther down the street, away from her unnamed puppy, until she disappeared into another alleyway and lost herself in the city. She did not return, and he did not follow.

* * *

><p>The pup was going to wait patiently for his mother. At first, he had just sat himself down on the pavement, in the exact same spot he'd been standing on when she told him not to follow her. After a while, he got a little nervous from being out on the open sidewalk, so the pup moved into a nearby alley wedged between two enormous brick buildings.<p>

He wasn't to follow her. That much he understood. She had gone away, and he couldn't come with her, but what really bothered the pup was that she hadn't told him how long she'd be gone. An hour? Two hours? All night?

Well, it didn't matter how long. She _was_ coming back. He would wait for her in the safety of his alleyway, staying awake all night if he had to.

The mutt puppy stayed awake for a few hours before he started to doze off. Every time he did, he forced himself awake, then ran out of the alley and onto the sidewalk to see if she was back yet. The only ones he saw coming were late-night New Yorkers, bundled warm and huddled close in the cold.

His breaths were clear, and the pup was shivering. He longed for the warmth of his mother's fur, but she wasn't back yet, so he'd have to find a way to keep warm on his own. He returned to his alley, poking his nose around for something warm. Some clothing, a cardboard box, anything...

Newspaper. It wasn't great, but newspaper was the best thing he could find. He crawled under a old sports section with a headline that declared the Yankees the winners of some past ballgame. The paper itself was not warm, but it did trap his body heat, so he was a little less cold than before.

He hadn't planned to fall asleep, but the newspaper was so much more comfortable than the cold concrete, and before long, he'd shut his eyes and called it quits for the night.

The puppy was woken up when a strange man with a wiry gray beard and an oversized jacket tried to pick up the newspaper. He jumped to his paws in shock, gave the man a pitiful little growl, and dashed out of the alley.

It was early the next morning, and his mother had _surely_ come back by now. But he'd been asleep in that alley, hiding under the newspaper... Oh no! She hadn't found him! She came back for him, but he'd been hidden from view!

The pup ran up and down the street, yelling, "Mom! Mom, where are you?" How could he have been so stupid? He never should have fallen asleep. He should've stayed in one spot all night until she returned.

"Mom! I'm here, I'm here! Please come back!" the puppy cried.

He passed crowds of people and even a few other dogs, but his mother was nowhere to be seen. Some of the people cooed at him, but others tried to kick him away. One came close to landing a blow, but he scurried away just in time.

"_Mooooooooom_!"

Nothing. No response. No mother.

Could it possibly be that she had... left him? That she had gone away with no intention of returning? After all, that was what his four siblings had done.

No, that was ridiculous. Mothers weren't allowed to do that. It went against everything he knew about them. Being eight-weeks-old, he didn't know a whole lot, but he did know that mothers had to love and care for their children and never, ever, _ever_ leave them.

The pup looked all around. He saw people walking back and forth and up and down the street, everyone in a rush to get somewhere and no one taking the time to glance down at him. He saw ferocious-looking dogs in an alley on the other side of the road. He saw a million cars of every shape and color speeding by, honking and screaming and filling up his ears with _so much_ _noise_.

He saw a lot of things in the Bronx, but he did not see _her_. The pup was frightened and alone and he just wanted his mother...

...but that wasn't going to happen.

Deep down, he knew that his worst fears had been realized. She had left him and she was never coming back.

Maybe he'd done something wrong. Did he upset her, make her angry with him? He couldn't think of anything.

Maybe he just hadn't been good enough for her. That was another possibility, he supposed. But she had favored him over her other pups, hadn't she? She'd fed him.

Maybe she'd just abandoned him for no reason at all. There was no logic, no justification for it... she'd just up and left him. This thought terrified him the most.

He would never see his mother again. She had gotten up, walked out of the alley, said a few words to him, and now...

She was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: Woo hoo! Finally started my Oliver &amp; Company prequel, <em>Abandoned<em>! It will be a short story about Dodger growing up on the streets of NYC. I want to give a big thank you to WickedlyRita, who gave me permission to use an image of puppy Dodger from her DeviantArt picture "Reunion." It makes a great story cover.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.**


	2. Angry Young Man

Ch. 02: Angry Young Man

_Where did she go?_

It had been an entire week since his mother had left him, and the pup wasn't dead yet. He was only two months old, and absolutely not fit to be living on the streets by himself... but she hadn't exactly given him much choice in the matter.

He had figured it would be difficult to survive on his own. He just didn't know it would be _this_ difficult.

The first day after he'd been abandoned, the pup had crawled back into the same alleyway he'd slept in the night before and stayed there till the sun went down and came up again. He had, admittedly, shed a few tears as he tried to fall asleep, but only a few. And he definitely hadn't been sobbing and sobbing, because that was for babies and he wasn't a baby anymore.

But he couldn't hide in that alley any longer, because he'd woken up to the ragged breaths of a huge, snarling dog coming from the far end of the narrow. The pup didn't think he'd been spotted yet, and he wasn't about to become a bite-sized meal. He bolted out of the alley, escaping before the big dog could even bark.

The pup emerged on a busy sidewalk and gasped. There were _so many_ _people_.

He must have caught them at some kind of morning rush, because he hadn't seen this many yesterday. New Yorkers were bustling up and down the streets, driving in their loud machines and yelling at one another with their heavy accents. An unshaven man was waving newspapers at passers-by. A woman wearing a lot of different colors on her face was pulling men into dark alleys. A man who reeked of garbage and sewer water was screaming about something called "aliens."

All of a sudden, a hairy old man in patchy overalls grabbed the pup and began waving him around at the crowds, yelling, "I need money to feed my dog!"

The mutt puppy barked and snapped until the man finally dropped him. He darted away as fast as his little legs could carry him, never wanting to repeat that experience again in his life.

He weaved in and out of a maze of legs, earning him screams from ladies who now had dog hair on their very fashionable pants. One such lady swatted at him with her purse, but he snagged it with his teeth. There was a ripping sound, and the contents of her purse spilled onto the pavement: make-up bottles, hair brushes, needles and pill bottles, and a wallet full of money.

The pup dashed away from the crowd of people, many of whom had dropped to the pavement to snatch up the lady's belongings before she could scream for help. He thought that was odd, since they'd all been in such a rush before.

He ran into a back alley again, where he passed another man in patchy clothes, only this one had scraggly red hair and was holding a sign that read THE END IS NIGH. But of course, the puppy had no idea what those words meant.

The man left the alley, and the pup was finally alone. His legs burned from running so fast and his lungs felt like they were about to explode. Worst of all, his stomach was growling something horrible.

He wanted to lie there all day, but the pup forced himself up and began digging around in the piles of trash littered on the ground. He turned up nothing edible, not at first anyways. Finally, the mutt found half a cheeseburger, but before he could bite into it...

"What do ya' think ya' doing in _OUR_ alley, kid?"

It was two enormous German Shepherds, spitting and snarling as they approached him. There were about ten times his size, and he had a feeling that half a cheeseburger wouldn't feed them both.

"Must be new to tha' streets, so we gonna' tell ya' how it works around here."

"This alleyway belongs to _us_. All tha' food in here belongs ta' _us_. Got it?"

"G – Got it," the pup whimpered.

He turned and ran out of the alley before the German Shepherds could say another word. The twin dogs began chasing after him, but the pup had a small head start. It was enough for him to dive into a new crowd of New Yorkers and lose the pair of Shepherds.

He was almost stepped on several times, but he hid himself under a parked car and was, temporarily, safe. When he thought the two German Shepherds had gone away, he waited a few minutes more, just to be extra sure. He must have waited too long, because the car above him hit the gas and drove away. Luckily, the pup was small enough to not be run over.

Only now he was out in plain sight. He quickly jumped off the road and took refuge in an extremely narrow alleyway. This one was so small that no bigger dogs could possibly be lurking around in the back. As long as he didn't meet a rabid Chihuahua, he was out of harm's way.

_This is actually a really good hiding spot_, the pup thought with a grin.

Sleeping in the newspaper had been great idea for keeping warm, but he'd been too exposed, not hidden well enough. And running around the open streets was no good either. Anyone could grab or threaten him, like the hairy man and the two German Shepherds had done.

_THIS_ was what he'd been in need of: a good place to hide from danger. The alley was just large enough for him to sleep in, but just small enough that no other dogs could bother him. There was even a tiny puddle of water, not yet frozen in the cold, that he could drink from.

The only problem was his alarming lack of food.

He was afraid to search through more seedy alleyways, but if he didn't eat out of the garbage, how was he supposed to eat at all? It wasn't like he could go around stealing food from people. It obviously belonged to them, and to just take it... well, it seemed wrong.

So the pup went to bed hungry that night. He shed a few more tears – very, very few tears, mind you – at the pain in his stomach, but eventually, he drifted off.

It was the exact same situation the next day, and the day after that. The pup played Avoid-the-Homeless-People-and-Street-Dogs until he got fairly good at it. Whenever he saw a smelly, hairy man coming his way, he raced out of the alley or dove behind a dumpster – another good hiding spot he'd found – until they left. The only street dogs who actually posed a threat to him were the big, mean ones, but the pup decided it was easier to stay safe if he just avoided other dogs altogether. Didn't have to sort the good from the bad that way.

So this was his life now. He was doomed to play this game day after day, always going to sleep hungry, always taking cover in his hiding spots. And all the while, there were questions that just wouldn't leave him alone...

_Where? Where did she go?_

She must have had something better to do, some alternative she found more appealing than being a mother. So where had she gone off to? Did she have a human and had to return home? That didn't seem likely. What if she had _another_ pup, one she wanted to be with more than him? It was possible... anything was possible.

He had absolutely no way of knowing where she'd gone, but the question still stuck in the back of his mind. Every time he asked it, he grew a little bit angrier.

_Who or what did she leave me for?_

Again, it was impossible to know. His mother had been a little teary-eyed when she walked away from him, so maybe she didn't actually want to leave him. Maybe she had been forced to.

_Why did she do it?_

Something told him that he would never know the answers to his questions. Unsurprisingly, the pup found that trying to justify what she'd done was much, much harder than blaming her entirely. It messed up the nice, straightforward resolution his anger brought him.

He was afraid to leave this area of the city – who knew what horrors were out there? – and so, the pup remained in his little section of the Bronx. The narrow alleyway became his favorite hiding spot, his home of sorts, and there he stayed safe and alone.

The pup was also beginning to pick up on who all lived in this particular area. Some of the homeless people came and went, but the hairy man who had grabbed him and the reeking man who screamed about "aliens" were regulars. The women were always more abundant at night, luring men away with their painted faces and loose clothing.

And then there were the street dogs. Thankfully, he had not seen those two German Shepherds in a while, but there were others to worry about. A nasty Boxer mix lived four blocks down from the pup's alleyway. Three Labrador mutts – the pup was fairly sure they were brothers – roamed the streets at exactly midnight, so he always hid himself at that time. An ugly old Pit Bull had claimed two different alleys, which was rather greedy of him, the pup thought. _He_ was one to be avoided.

Even so, the worst enemy he faced on the streets was starvation. The pup had eaten a couple scraps people dropped on the ground – one a day, if he was lucky – but that was it so far. It seemed like every good, garbage-filled alley in the Bronx had been claimed by a massive street dog, and the pup was terrified of them all.

The last good meal he'd eaten had been a stale bagel with a moldy cream cheese spread. It had made him sick to his stomach, but it was something at least. Now, several days later, the pup was bone-thin and weary from hunger.

With the mud and gravel matting his fur, the frail little puppy looked more like a rat than a dog. Actually, he'd seen rats that looked better-fed than him, so that was a poor comparison.

What was he supposed to do? He didn't dare steal food from the claimed alleyways. He couldn't steal food from the people, not even the ones who sold it on the streets.

Really, this was because the puppy didn't _want_ to steal. It was immoral, he knew, to just take something that belonged to someone else. He remembered the time he'd snagged a lady's purse and spilled all of her personal items on the ground. The pup had been disgusted seeing the crowd snatch up her things so quickly, so eagerly.

He didn't want to resort to that. And it wasn't like the pup was _completely_ starved. That stale bagel would last him a long time. He was fine.

The mutt gritted his teeth, trying not to whine for the pain of it all. His stomach had never clenched up this tightly before. He'd lost count of how many days he had gone without food now. Three? Five? Ten? They all blurred together, not in the least because he spent most of them either passed out or delusional with hunger.

He thought he saw the two German Shepherds one time, but it turned out to be two cats poking around the garbage. Another time, he glimpsed his mother disappearing into a crowd of people. The pup had cried himself to sleep that night, because he'd been too exhausted to chase after her, and now he would never know if she had been real or just a vision.

"H – How could she..." the pup muttered before he passed out for the night, "...do this to me...?"

_How could she go?_

It was his anger that kept him going through these days of starvation. He fed on it. Thinking about what she had done made his heart beat faster and his blood start to boil, but it gave him something to focus on. He kept himself alive by fuming over his abandonment, hating his mother.

_Why did she do this to me?_

Hating her. Did he hate her? He was angry, certainly... but to hate her was something else entirely. Something ugly and cold, colder than the winds that made him shiver in the night. At the same time, it was red-hot and much warmer than his anger alone. Anger kept him alive, but when he let himself hate, it was like shooting a surge of life straight into his veins. It was euphoric. Addictive.

But he also knew how bad it was. Loving his mother felt like the most natural thing in the world, but hating her was just so... unnatural. The same way the pup had felt disgust at the crowd stealing the lady's belongings, he was disgusted with himself for even maybe considering the remote possibility of hating his mother.

_Why should I care?_

That was, in the end, the conclusion the pup came to. It didn't matter how much he hated her or didn't hate her, because it would never change what had happened. So why should he worry about it? Why should he care?

All that mattered was the reality of his situation. Had he been abandoned? Obviously. Was he angry at her? Definitely. Did he hate her? Didn't matter. Was he going to die on these streets? Not if he could help it.

At some point, the pup's internal clock told him that he had been without food for two whole weeks. He'd gotten used to the increasingly loud rumbles and groans of his stomach, so it had been extremely alarming when it just... stopped. It was as if the pup's entire digestive system had resigned itself to its cruel, inevitable fate.

But he wasn't out yet. Sure, two weeks with no food was bad, but the mutt puppy could take it. A few days ago, he'd found a dead dog lying in the gutter. Starvation, clearly. In that moment, the pup had sworn to himself that he would survive this ordeal. Rolling over and dying was _NOT_ an option.

This city could throw everything it had at him, but he would never give up. There were no take-backs or do-overs in this game they played. You didn't get to start a new game when you quit. You just died.

If he was going to survive, the pup had to know who he was. It felt wrong to be a thief, and he didn't care if he was hateful or not. Still, it was hard to know himself if he didn't even have a name.

That was her fault too, wasn't it? Mothers were supposed to name their pups, but his hadn't bothered. Just another reason to be angry with her.

So it was up to him. Humans had names, cats had names, and dogs had names. Everything had a name, he'd learned. The New Yorkers who always walked in such a hurry had special names for the people he had seen on the streets. The unshaven man who sold newspapers was called "homeless." The man who ranted about aliens was a "lunatic." The women who pulled men into dark alleys were named "whores." That one in particular stuck with him.

He heard all kinds of names by listening to the passers-by. A woman named "Brenda" was always complaining about a man called "Eddie" to her fellow bus-stoppers. A mother named "Susan" got a mocha latte on her way to pick up her son "Paul" from daycare. The pup saw "Steve" and "Jonathan" and "Allison" and so, so many other people, going about their day-to-day lives in the Big Apple.

So what was his name going to be? If his mother hadn't given him one, he would pick one out for himself, only he had to be choosy. He wanted his name to be perfect.

The pup once overheard a father calling to his son "William" before the child got separated from him in a crowd. It wasn't quite right, but he liked it well enough. William. Yes, that would do for now.

Will now knew who he was, at least somewhat. He was a part of the city, whether the city liked it or not, and he was angry. An angry young man – or dog, as it were.

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: William is the first of many names the pup will take over the course of the story. It's fun to think about what name a young Dodger would settle on, and I think he'd like Will, at least for starters. Also, yes, dogs can go for two weeks without food. Longer than that, I think (of course, it's very sad that they'd ever have to). <strong>

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.**


	3. Only the Good Die Young

Ch. 03: Only the Good Die Young

Will was going to die out here.

At least, he would if he didn't get something to eat. A whole two weeks without food, while survivable, was almost too much for poor William to bear. The situation looked impossible – he didn't dare steal food from the savage street dogs, not after his close encounter with those two German Shepherds, and he just couldn't bring himself to steal food from the New Yorkers.

This was because every time William thought about stealing a bite to eat from a pedestrian, he felt two things. The first was hunger, because the mere thought of food made his pain ten times worse. The second was shame, because he just _knew_ it was wrong to take something that obviously belonged to someone else.

But he could live with shame. Food he could not live without.

William had no idea how he was going to pull this off. He wasn't some master thief, and frankly, he didn't want to be. But he had to eat, so the pup took a deep breath and charged out of his narrow little alley and onto the busy sidewalk.

Now, who was he going to steal from? Will saw a pleasant-looking woman sitting down to enjoy a pastrami sandwich. No, not her. He glanced over at a young couple enjoying a bowl of spaghetti and bread sticks together. Not them either.

And then he saw the most repulsive man he had ever had the unfortunate to lay his eyes on.

It wasn't that he was fat. It was that he was _monstrously_ fat, the kind of fat someone only got when they did nothing all day but sit on their couch and shove horrible, greasy food in their mouth. The man's extra-extra-large-sized pants were sliding off his bottom, revealing something no one – absolutely no one – wanted to see. He had oily black hair and stubble on his three chins. That and the awful smell that lingered about him told Will this man was too lazy to shower daily. Maybe weekly.

William was fairly sure he'd have no regrets about stealing food from this man. He was pushing a cart of hotdogs to sell on the street – a food vender, Will realized – and was loudly advertising his products in a thick Italian accent.

But just then, Will noticed another puppy approaching the enormous hot dog vender. It was a scrappy little pug, clearly a street dog like himself, and it was whimpering and begging the fat man to spare some food.

Begging. Why hadn't he thought to do that? Why had Will's only idea been to _steal_? He felt very ashamed, because begging was a much more humble thing to do, and it hadn't even crossed his mind until today.

Well, he thought that way until he watched the hotdog vender scoff in disgust and kick the pug away from his cart.

Now William was positive he'd have no regrets.

He darted across the street when the traffic was stopped at a red light, then snuck nearer to the disgusting food vender. Now that he was up close, the man's body odor, mixed with the stench of his cigar, almost made the puppy gag (he stopped himself so he wouldn't give away his position).

Will observed that the man had parked his cart of frankfurters precariously close to a fire hydrant. The hydrant, colored red from paint and rust, looked a little unstable. In fact, it looked like it would spew water everywhere with one good kick to the cap...

"Hot dogs. Get ya' hot dogs here," the horrendously fat man mumbled. His voice was dripping with self-loathing like his hotdogs dripped with grease. "One for a dollar. Two for a dollar. I don't care. Just buy 'em."

It would seem that his stench was fending off customers, since the passers-by were all giving him a very, very wide berth. Well, it was either his stench, or the fact that the grill on his cart was splashing hot oil onto the sidewalk every ten seconds. The only person to get close to him was a starving terrier mutt puppy.

"Shoo! Shoo! I don't feed ya' little pests!" the man scowled.

William did not move, but hovered around the fat vendor, barking his head off at him. The man did nothing at first, but when he grew angry enough, he launched a kick at the pup – and Will was ready for him.

The pup jumped out of the way, and the fat man kicked the loose cap off of the red fire hydrant. A stream of water immediately shot out, soaking the vendor and washing the grease off his hotdogs (they were probably much healthier now). While the man screamed and shouted and cursed the pup, Will was busy stealing an entire roll of hotdogs from the wet cart. He darted off with them, running much faster than the enormous man.

Success! A resounding success! Not only had he snatched enough hotdogs to feed himself for a week, he'd completely humiliated that horrible vendor, and he wasn't sure which made him happier. William had settled down in a nearby back alley, ready to devour into his loot, when...

"Ya' – Ya' just stole from Old Louie!"

Oh no. How had he not noticed this alley wasn't empty?

William immediately snarled at the two dogs, even though the dachshund and Chihuahua mutts weren't particularly threatening. Still, he wasn't about to hand over his food, not after two weeks of starvation.

"Whoa, whoa! We ain't gonna' hurt ya', kid!" the dachshund said.

"We just wanted ta' tell ya' that... well..." the Chihuahua was grinning ear to ear, "...what ya' did back there was amazing!"

"Whaddya' mean, it was _amazing_?" Will frowned at them. "All I did was steal something to eat. Don't everyone do that?"

The two dogs looked astounded at the question. Eventually, the dachshund said, "Kid, if everyone could do what ya' just did, none of us would ever go to bed on an empty stomach."

"None of us would die young, ya' mean," the Chihuahua added.

William looked back and forth between the two relatively small street dogs (though he wasn't much larger himself) and found a smile on his face. Maybe it was the way they were gazing at him in admiration, or maybe it was just the fact that he'd finally met some street dogs who _weren't_ trying to kill him, but Will was feeling quite pleased with himself.

"I _was_ good, wasn't I?" the pup grinned.

"Good? Ya' were _GREAT_, kid!" the dachshund laughed. "You're a natural! Old Louie hates anyone who runs around on four legs, an' ya' – ya' _stole_ from him. Keep working at it, an' I bet you'll be a master thief one day!"

A master thief, huh? The idea had been repulsive to him a few short moments ago, but now... well, it was starting to look as good as the hotdogs he'd stolen.

And then William thought back to the crowd of people jumping at the chance to snatch up what had spilled out of a lady's purse. There was no consideration for the poor woman, no hesitancy about stealing all her personal belongings... it was just so wrong. It had made him sick at his stomach, worse than the moldy cream cheese he'd eaten off that bagel.

The lady might have swung her purse at him, but she hadn't deserved _that_. And while he felt absolutely no regrets about stealing from disgusting people like Old Louie, most people were good. Decent. At least, he liked to think they were.

"All I did, fellas," William finally told the two dogs, "was think about tha' situation. Plan out my moves. I saw a golden opportunity, an' I took it."

They continued to stare at him in awe, saying they'd never considered something as drastic as _thinking_ before stealing their food. Will watched their eyes dart down to his hotdogs, then look back up at him as if nothing had happened. He knew exactly where this was going.

"So... uh... ya' got an awful lot of hotdogs there, kid..."

Yep. There it was.

"An' I'm gonna' eat every last one of 'em," William said with a very slight growl. Before the two dogs could say anything else, Will had snatched up the roll of frankfurters in his mouth and marched out of the alleyway. They did not chase after him – an after effect of their understandable admiration, he figured.

If they were just going to beg him for food – _HIS_ food, no less – then Will had no desire to stick around. He was well past the verge of starvation and absolutely could not afford to be sharing with anyone else.

Will ran straight home, stopping only when he was safe within the very narrow walls of his own personal alleyway, his favorite hiding spot. There, he could finally lie down and bite into his hotdogs.

There are really no words to describe the feeling of eating food after two weeks of severe hunger. And this wasn't just food – it was _good_ food. All-beef Kosher franks. Simply put, they were the greatest thing William had ever eaten in the two and a half months he'd been alive.

Sure, there was no visible change in the pup. He was just as thin and shaggy as before, but he felt so much better now. Will didn't stop eating until he'd devoured the entire roll of hotdogs, and when he had finished, his stomach was full for the first time in months. Now, it could've just been food-induced optimism, but William couldn't stop thinking an absolutely crazy thought...

_I think I'm gonna' be alright._

Will had learned today that he wasn't just a thief – he was a _talented_ thief. And if stealing was the only way that he'd get food this good, then so be it. It was possible to be a thief and still be a good person, wasn't it? He would only steal from bad people who deserved it and take no more than he needed.

He was going to do this the right way.

* * *

><p>"Okay, fellas. Here's tha' plan."<p>

William was four months old and currently bowing his head into a group huddle. He was joined by two other dogs, a Chihuahua and a dachshund, who happened to be the very same dogs he'd encountered the day he had first stolen food and were gazing at him with the very same admiration in their eyes.

"I need _you_ to draw tha' people away from that scrumptious pizza," Will said to the Chihuahua. "It don't matter what ya' do. Steal her purse, bite at his ankles, whatever it takes. Just get 'em away. Got it?"

"Got it," the Chihuahua nodded.

"An' _you_ come in when they leave tha' pizza unguarded," the young mutt now spoke to the dachshund. "Grab it off tha' table, run it back to me, then go rescue ya' friend from tha' people. Can ya' do that?"

"Ya' can count on me!" the dachshund grinned.

"Then we meet ya' back in this alley an' split tha' pizza, right?"

"Of course, of course," Will smiled.

The group of dogs barked their confidence, then set William's plan into motion. Just as he'd instructed, the Chihuahua ran out to draw the nice young couple away from the diner's outdoor booth. He accomplished this by snatching the lady's winter scarf and taking off with it. The man and woman immediately shouted, jumped up, and chased after him.

Once they were gone, the dachshund played his part. He snuck up to the table, shivering slightly at the light snowfall, then jumped up on the man's chair and grabbed the pizza in his mouth. He brought it back to William, who reminded him to go help out the Chihuahua. The dachshund nodded and ran off to do so.

But when the two dogs finally escaped from the humans and returned to the alleyway, William and the pizza had mysteriously vanished. This worried them, because it meant a bigger dog could've stolen the pizza and scared off Will, and they quite liked that pup.

"Anchovies. I _hate_ anchovies," William grumbled, spitting out said pizza topping. It would've been a perfect operation if not for those stupid, salty fish. Well, some things just couldn't be helped.

The pup had to have his fill of food and fun every day, and that little con of his had satisfied both needs. They'd finished early, so Will had the whole evening to crawl back in his narrow alleyway and catch some sleep. That way, he'd be wide awake when it was nighttime, and then the fun would _really_ begin.

He had no trouble finding his alley. Falling asleep was the hard part. Every time the pup closed his eyes, he saw his mother turning her back on him and walking away, going farther and farther until she had vanished from sight and all he wanted was for her to run back to him, to cradle and love him. But that's why they were called dreams, right? Because they were only ever true in your head.

William clenched his teeth together and growled, trying to scare off the memories, but it didn't help. He tried thinking happy thoughts, remembering the cons he'd pulled off and the taste of the food he'd stolen, but his pleasant memories were so few and far between that they did him little good.

Well, fine then. Sleep was overrated anyways.

He had no destination in mind when he walked out of his alley and took off down the sidewalk. Having lived here his entire life, the pup was growing very familiar with this area of the city that people called "The Bronx." It was a cruel neighborhood that lined it's streets with condemned buildings and enormous potholes and waves of garbage that spilled out from the alleys and ran into the road.

The trash littered on the sidewalk was always picked clean of food, which just left the garbage lying on the road. Few dogs were brave enough to dart out, dig up some food, and run back to the sidewalk for fear of being hit by a car. Will had risked the road a few times before, but last week he'd watched a dog get struck dead and trampled under the wheels of a taxi cab. He hadn't tested his luck since.

Still, the thought of food made his stomach rumble. _Come on, I just ate that pizza!_ William thought to himself with a groan. _Wasn't that enough?_

Apparently not. He didn't strictly need to find more food, as the pizza would definitely last him, but Will was feeling hungry again. He didn't smell any food in the nearby trash, so he moved farther down the pavement. The pup's nose told him to stop in front of a particularly trashy alleyway, almost blocked from view by a rusty fire escape and a mountain of snow-covered cardboard boxes.

"Hmm... what do we have here?" William grinned and began pawing through the reeking garbage.

Just when he'd turned up a half-eaten tub of Kennedy Fried Chicken that smelled as good as it looked, Will heard a growl coming from the dark end of the alley. He really hated when this happened.

To his surprise, the dog who emerged was not another snarling dog who could devour him in one bite, but a small puppy no bigger than Will himself. He looked significantly younger than him, though, and he was a German Shepherd – William's least favorite kind of dog.

"T – This is _MY_ alleyway, and that's _MY_ food!" the small pup said, growling at him again. His voice was weak and shaky, making him sound not the least bit threatening.

"Tough luck, kid. I'm hungry," William scoffed. He turned his back to the pup and tore off a bite of delicious fried chicken.

He didn't get to finish swallowing it, because the German Shepherd rammed into his side and stood on top of him, snarling as best a puppy could. Now that he had a proper look at him, Will figured the pup was maybe two months old. The age he'd been when he was left to the streets.

"I'm not a kid!" the pup barked at him. "I'm a street dog, and this is _MY_ alley! My name is Razor. Remember it!"

Will almost burst out laughing. Of all the claims this pup had made, thinking that he would ever remember his name had to be the funniest.

"Back off, punk," Will sneered at him, "or I'll make you."

The Shepherd did not back off. He charged at William with his claws and fangs blaring, but he went flying into the pile of snowy cardboard boxes with one little shove. He whimpered in defeat and ran off to shiver in the furthest corner of the alley. Will devoured the tub of fried chicken, leaving nothing for the younger puppy but the sting of his bruises.

He'd intended to spend the evening sleeping, but that had been much more entertaining, _and_ he wasn't the least bit hungry now. It was a win-win. Night had fallen on the Bronx, and the only question was how Will was going to spend it. He didn't need to steal any more food... but maybe he could just steal for the thrill of it.

Will would've never thought that thieving could be this much fun. It was something he was actually good at, and he felt so alive while doing it – the danger of his plans, the thrill of the chase, and the satisfaction of outrunning his victims. Not to mention it gave him something to focus on so his mind wouldn't think back to _her_.

There was a time when Will thought there was something inherently _wrong_ with stealing, but the only thing wrong was how stupid he'd been. All the people he watched, the New Yorkers who passed him without a second thought, were given more in life than he'd ever have, so you had better believe he was going to steal from them. As for the street dogs he conned and robbed, they were playing the same game he was. Will was just better at it.

There was no way he was going to die out here. Labels like "good" and "bad" didn't matter as long as he survived, so he didn't care how low he had to stoop. Will was going to steal to eat and he was going to have a good time doing it.

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: So you may have noticed by now that I like to reference Billy Joel an awful lot in my stories, whether it's naming chapters after his songs or having Dodger's first name be "William." I can't help it. Billy Joel is just too great. Also, Dodger does not remember ever meeting Razor as a pup. Like he said he wouldn't.<strong>

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.**


	4. Don't Need No One

Ch. 04: Don't Need No One

"William" hadn't been quite right for him. It was a fine name, sure, but the pup had never intended for it to be permanent, and on the long and dark day that saw the last snowfall of the winter, he took a new one.

Will had been about to wrap himself in some old blankets he'd stolen from a passed-out drunkard, curl up in a back alley to avoid the snow, and sleep the rest of the night when a big dog approached him. He was black-furred Labrador Retriever mix, and he was snarling at the scruffy young pup.

"I remember ya', boy," the snarling dog said. "Ya' tha' brat who tricked me out of my share of those egg rolls. Name is William, ain't it? Well, after today, ya' ain't gonna' trick anyone ever again."

"Oh, no, you've got it all wrong," he calmly told the black Lab mix. "I ain't that jerk William. We just look really similar. Nah, my name is..." His eyes searched the alleyway and eventually settled on a glowing neon sign that read DAWKINS' PAWN SHOP. The pup grinned, "...Dawkins."

"My mistake! Sorry for scaring ya', Dawkins," the Labrador Retriever said, backing away sheepishly. "Ya' an' William look so much alike is all."

"I get that a lot, actually. He even conned this Pit Bull once an' pinned tha' blame on _me_. Tha' brute almost killed me before I explained it all," the pup shuddered. "If ya' ever do find Will, beat him up for me, won't ya'?"

The mixed Lab agreed to do so, apologized to Dawkins once again for his mistake, and left him alone in the back alley. As soon as he'd gone, the pup had to bury his face in the smelly blankets to muffle his laughter.

And strangely enough, the Labrador Retriever never did find William.

A cold winter had come and gone in New York, and while the rest of the city was looking forward to a warmer spring, the pup didn't quite know what to expect. In fact, he'd kind of assumed the weather was always this cold and snowy. It came as a very pleasant surprise when frigid temperatures gave way to gentle rains and blooming park flowers.

The question of Dawkins' survival had long since passed. He'd grown large enough to frighten and bully smaller dogs, quick enough to bolt away from bigger mutts, and clever enough to trick them all. Dawkins hadn't gone to bed hungry for several weeks now, and his ribs were no longer visible. _Gradual improvement_, he told himself. _Gradual improvement._

Looking back on it, he wasn't entirely sure how he had managed to survive on the streets at such a young age. Dawkins has barely been two months old when _she_ abandoned him, and by all logic, he should have died within the week.

Dawkins didn't know if it was his talent for thieving, his own cleverness, or just dumb luck that kept him alive – most likely a combination of all three – but he had somehow lived through the winter, surviving to three months, then four, five, and now an astounding six months of age.

Well, that was all behind him. He _had_ survived, and it didn't matter how, and he didn't care if it was talent or cleverness or luck. That had been William, young and stupid, hesitant to rob from the New Yorkers, scared to death of the mean old street dogs. Dawkins was another dog entirely.

"Now... what am I gonna' do tonight, eh?" the pup yawned as he woke up from his evening sleep.

That seemed to be the question he asked himself every night. The only things Dawkins ever really _needed_ to do was steal some food, drink some water, find some shelter, and doze off for a few hours. He'd become so good at accomplishing those tasks that there was time left for other things... but what?

"People always out at night... could do some stealing," Dawkins muttered, peeking his head out from the narrow alleyway he called home. People _were_ always out at night, but these weren't the sort of people Dawkins wanted to deal with.

He saw a gang of street thugs in their ripped shirts and leather jackets, people of light skin and dark skin and sort of an in-between color, and all of them looked like bad news. He saw women of the night, colorful and alluring, yet avoiding the gang of men. And he saw all the usual patrons: homeless man selling papers, crazy man shouting about aliens, hairy man begging for money.

Dawkins had learned that humans could be just as dangerous as the street dogs he dealt with, if not more so; the pup made a habit of avoiding both. He headed towards the South Bronx, taking back alleys and short cuts he'd become familiar with, until he was finally in a friendlier part of town.

"Ah, much better," Dawkins sighed in relief. There was still graffiti on the walls and trash on the ground, but the people out and about here looked more civilian and less criminal.

In fact, some of them were so civilian that they were walking their dogs. Dawkins gazed at a young couple with a Boston Terrier about the same age as himself. He was on one of those repulsive leashes, but the dog looked... happy. Content, even.

Dawkins figured it was happiness via ignorance. If the Boston Terrier only knew how wonderful it was to run free on the streets and sleep on the hard concrete and wonder where his next meal would come from... Well, huh. Maybe he was smarter than he looked.

This dog had people to love him, a family who'd never leave him – but it wasn't real, Dawkins insisted. The humans just wanted something cute and cuddly to make _themselves_ feel loved. The Boston Terrier was like a doll to them.

No way he wanted to be a pet like that. Dawkins was perfectly content to live on his own. Alone.

He watched the people walk their pet down to a burger joint. When their food came, the Boston Terrier began begging, and his humans fed him some fries. The man was all smiles, the woman laughing.

Dawkins was filled with an inexplicable hatred of this family. He ran across the street to their table and leapt up to steal the man's hamburger. The couple shouted, the Terrier barked, but Dawkins was already long gone.

When he was safe in an alleyway, he threw the hamburger on the ground and walked away. Dawkins wasn't hungry in the slightest.

"Don't need no human. Why would I?" the pup scoffed, trudging deeper into the world of slums and narrows and back alleys. "Don't need no leash."

Behind one of the smaller brick buildings, Dawkins came across two dogs much younger than he was. Brothers, probably, given how similar they looked. He didn't smell any food on them, so he left the pups alone. They snarled at him as he passed, standing confident beside one another.

He could've taught them a lesson if he'd felt like it, but Dawkins decided not to. He walked on until the brothers were out of sight, muttering, "Don't need anyone beside me. They'd just get in my way."

So what if they had each other? It might make them a little less lonely, but Dawkins was smarter and stronger than both of those pups put together, and that was all that really mattered.

An hour later, he'd left that area of town behind and journeyed farther into the heart of the Bronx. The majority of the buildings were not condemned, which was a nice change, though trash still lined the sidewalks. This neighborhood wasn't what he would call a slum, but it wasn't too far off either. He came to a fenced in basketball court, but the chain-link fence was falling apart and weeds had grown from cracks in the pavement.

When Dawkins stepped a paw into the trashed-up courtyard, he caught the scent of street dogs. They were hidden behind three dumpsters, emerging when they realized he was no threat. It was a small gang, made up of scruffy mutts of all sizes.

The gang stared at Dawkins. He stared back. They stayed that way a moment before Dawkins scowled and left the run-down basketball court. The dog gang was never once threatened by him, not afraid in the least. Power in numbers.

"Don't need no company," the pup mumbled, refusing to look back at the gang. "I'm fine on my own. I can take care of myself."

Six months old. He was practically an adult now, wasn't he? Dawkins had no desire to join a gang like them. They were no different from that group of human thugs – all bad news, probably threatened younger guys into joining. They weren't a family, just like those humans weren't the Boston Terrier's family.

But now, Dawkins found himself running. He wasn't sure if he was running from the courtyard gang, the two brothers, the pet owners, or maybe all of them together. Truthfully, he ran without reason. The pup raced up the Bronx streets, leaving the horribly clean neighborhood and returning to the wonderfully familiar slums and narrows. The stench of alcohol and gunpowder mixed in the air, and it calmed him. He was home.

He stopped to catch his breath, but when he did, Dawkins heard movement from a nearby alleyway. It sounded like three dogs, and big ones at that, getting closer and closer to him.

"That one was all by himself!" he heard one say.

"An' I was just getting' hungry, too."

William might have frozen up and hidden himself in a gutter, simply hoping not to be found, but Dawkins was smarter. He immediately ran from the three dogs, diving into an alley only when he spotted a fire escape. The pup leapt onto a trash can, jumped from there onto the metal ladder, and one by one, scampered up the rusty rungs. Dawkins watched his pursuers from the top of the building.

"Where did he go? I don't see him."

"Must've gone farther up tha' street..."

"C'mon guys, he's getting away!"

_Not too shabby. Not too shabby at all_, Dawkins grinned to himself. He couldn't help sneering at the three dogs as they ran farther away from him, though he did resist laughing at them (for obvious reasons).

_I'm smarter an' faster than all of 'em_, the pup thought.

Before, he had survived by figuring out who he was – an angry young man, a master thief, and a shameless con-artist all wrapped into one – but the streets required more than that now. In order to survive, Dawkins had to know his strengths and play to them. Sure, he was faster than most and stronger than a few, but out here, no one was smarter than him. No one.

If he was clever enough, then he could make it on his own. He didn't need a human or a brother or a gang. He could live on his own. Alone.

Dawkins turned his eyes away from the street below and looked around the rooftop he found himself on. It was the first roof he'd ever explored, but it all looked pretty normal to him: concrete beneath his paws, starless night sky overhead, stairwell door to his right, and to his left...

What was _that_? Some kind of big, wooden, mahogany table thing, only in a weird curvy shape, and there was just one chair. More of a bench, really. Above the bench, along the lower edge of the table, was a row of tiny black and white blocks.

The pup approached it hesitantly, unsure what it's purpose was. Did you eat on it, as with other tables? Did humans put books on it? This demanded investigation.

Dawkins took a deep breath and leapt from the bench to the top of the table thing. It seemed sturdy enough. So if it was a normal table, what were the black and white blocks for?

He reached a paw down and touched one of the white blocks. Dawkins almost fell off the table and over the edge of the building, because the block made a startling _Plink!_ sound when he pressed it.

The pup growled at the thing, then slowly, carefully, pressed another white block. It also made a _Plink!_ sound, but this one was deeper than the other.

"What tha' heck is this?" Dawkins frowned, walking in circles on top of the thing. "Some kinda'... sound table?"

A sound table. That wasn't quite right. Cars made sounds when they honked their horns. Puddles made sounds when he splashed through them after a rainy day. Men made sounds when women of the night pulled them into alleys.

These _Plinks!_ weren't any ordinary sounds. There was something special about them, something that made his heart race every time he pressed a block and made a noise. Dawkins made _Plink!_ after _Plink!_ on the strange table until he figured out the right word for these tunes.

Music.

He'd seen a man on the streets plucking at a round wooden base with a handle and strings attached. That made music. He'd passed a group of men blowing into curved, shiny brass tubes. They made music.

Dawkins wasn't entirely sure what music was, but he liked it. The more he played on the rooftop sound table – no, the _music_ table – the more he wanted his melody to be better and better. The notes he played didn't flow together. It sounded off, and Dawkins was becoming frustrated.

He kept trying to get a catchy tune going, but he pressed down on a block at the far end and it made a deep, mournful groan. That wasn't right at all.

"Aah, forget it!" Dawkins growled, jumping down from his music table. "If I can't play it right, I don't wanna' play it at all!"

He was six months old. Practically an adult now. That meant he wasn't allowed to cry anymore, but Dawkins couldn't help it. He wanted his music to sound good, but it didn't, it was all wrong.

He'd felt so happy playing music, but now that he had quit, the flood of loneliness came rushing back to him. Like the wrong note he'd struck, his solitude made a deep, resonating _Plink!_ in his heart and made him cry.

_No, no, I'm – I'm fine on my own. _Dawkins repeated the thought over and over in his head, but the words never stayed with him.

_ I'm fine. I can survive alone. I don't need no one._

He closed his eyes and saw the Boston Terrier and his human owners, the two brothers confident beside each other, and the gang of dogs who found strength and safety in numbers.

_Don't need no one._

He was smarter than them, faster than them, and better than them all on his own. And he actually liked being alone, he really did. Solitude meant no dumb dogs to bother him, no one to watch out for but himself, no one else he had to care about.

The loneliness was a part of him, just as his anger and his thievery were parts of him, and it wasn't good or bad or anything moral whatsoever. He only knew it was a given, a constant, and he was okay with that. It was simply the hand he'd been dealt.

Dawkins allowed himself to cry that night, but swore that he would never, ever cry again. He couldn't. He wasn't a pup anymore. The young dog curled himself up on top of the strange music table, wiped the tears from his eyes, and fell asleep listening to the sounds of cars and puddles and men in the city around him.

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: Do you ever get frustrated when you play a piano and it just doesn't sound right, so you give up altogether? I do. I'm petty like that. I <em>could<em> learn how to play... but that takes effort. And I'd much rather spend my time writing fanfictions for old Disney movies. I hope you all get where the name Dawkins comes from.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.**


	5. How the Strong Survive

Ch. 05: How the Strong Survive

He slowly blinked his eyes open and let out an enormous yawn. One glance outside the alley told him it was morning rush hour, and that meant it was _way_ too early for him to function. The dog rolled over to curl back up in the warm, comfortable newspaper that lined the ground of the alleyway... except a dog was already lying on the paper. Of all the things he had ever dug out of the trash, she smelled the best by far.

"Rise an' shine," the young dog said with a grin and another yawn for good measure. "This city never sleeps, so why should we, darling?"

"Oooh, I _love_ it when you call me darling!" the girl squealed, immediately jumping onto her paws. She began nuzzling his face, which was obviously one step too far for him. Affection was one thing he could not deal with.

He dashed away from the girl, who instantly switched from a lovey-dovey smile to a pouty face. "What's the matter, Martin? You upset?"

Martin? Who the heck was Martin? But when the drowsiness left him, all the details of the past night came back to him. "Upset? Nah, I'm just eager to get out an' about tha' city! There's so much to do, an' so little time in tha' day."

"You're as energetic as a puppy!" the girl laughed, inching closer to him again. "Makes me wonder how old you really are, Marty..."

Oh, great. Now the broad was giving him cute nicknames.

"I'm older than I look, darling," he said, trotting towards the entrance of the alleyway, sneering the way he did whenever he told a lie. Well, it wasn't a total lie. Eight months was pretty old, right? Practically an adult now.

"Y'know, I think you're the handsomest mutt I've ever seen on these streets," the girl beamed, giggling as she looked his body up and down, from the gray on his muzzle to the white of his tail. "Well, actually, it may be a tie. I remember meeting this guy a couple days ago named Dawkins who's been seeing my sister... and it's crazy, but you look just like him!"

"Dawkins? Oh yeah, I know him. Guess we do look pretty similar," Martin shrugged, then slipped back into a grin. "Your sis has good taste in guys."

She giggled for what felt like the umpteenth time. It was a high-pitched, sugary-sweet sound, and it made him want to throw up the chicken nuggets he had eaten the night before. Martin rolled his eyes when she wasn't looking, then turned back to the dumb broad with his most suave smile. He used it so often he needed a patent.

"Okay, okay... listen up, darling," Martin said, trying to keep a straight face. "Sure, we had our fun, but I've got places to go. Stuff to steal. Don't need a pretty face like yours getting me all distracted along the way, now do I?"

The girl took a moment to register what he said before going hysterical, but he'd been expecting that. They always took the news so hard.

"_What_? But – But I thought you _loved_ me!" she stammered, beginning to tear up. Now it was even harder for him to keep a straight face.

"Oh, c'mon, darling. Love is for suckers. Everyone knows that open relationships are where it's at nowadays," Martin said, his grin spreading from ear to ear. Finally, he couldn't hold it back any longer, and Martin burst into laughter.

The girl dashed out of the alley, shrieking and swearing and sobbing all in the same breath, which was a pretty impressive feat, now that he thought about it. And now that there was no longer anyone else on his comfy newspaper, Martin slumped to the ground and was snoring within five minutes. Rush hour was just _way_ too early.

Maybe it was the pure thrill he got from telling lies or the hilarious mental image of the girl running away in tears, but Martin was having trouble staying asleep. He _wanted_ to sleep, he knew he wanted to, but his body wasn't cooperating with him like usual. He tried closing his eyes and counting kittens. He tried getting a drink of water from a muddy puddle. He even tried wedging himself between some soft garbage bags, hoping for a more comfortable bed than the gritty concrete. Finally, he managed to force his eyes shut and drift into a deep sleep.

Maybe it was the sight of the girl leaving him all alone in the back alley, wanting nothing more to do with him, but as he slept, he dreamed of someone else abandoning him in a trashed alleyway.

The young dog's eyes shot open and darted all around the alley. He saw cracked brick walls spray-painted with graffiti, dirty needles in the corner and old cigarettes that made the air smell like smoke, and a hundred people bustling too and fro just a few feet away, but he was all alone in the alley.

"It's stupid, that's what it is," Martin scoffed. He was panting heavily, his heart racing, but there was no good reason for it. "I'm an adult now. Shouldn't be getting no bad dreams like that."

Dreams. He remembered hearing something said about dreams once, something whispered in his ear as he slept. Martin would never forget the softness of her voice, the way it always sounded like she was about to break into tears, or the warmth of her body when she hugged him in the cold.

_Keep your dream alive. Dreaming is still how the strong survive._

And how stupid was that? What, was he supposed to dream about being abandoned over and over again and that would somehow make him survive? He had been on the streets long enough to know that the only way anyone survived was by taking what was needed, doing what had to be done, and never once looking back.

If she had really wanted him to survive, then she would have stayed beside him, fed him, and loved him instead of mumbling some pretty words into his ear and disappearing like a thief in the night. But clearly she had better things to do than worry about some stupid little puppy.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was all so stupid.

Martin brought a paw up to his eyes and wiped away a tear that had somehow escaped. She kept whispering the words again and again in his head, and every time they were just as meaningless. He tried to drown them out by thinking of something else, _anything_ else...

He thought of all the lessons he had learned in the eight months of his life. It's okay to be angry. It's okay to steal. It's okay to be alone. He thought about the taste of biting into a cheeseburger, the way the juice dripped to the ground and the ketchup got in his fur, but burgers tasted best after he had starved a day and a night. He thought about his newfound love of girls and wondered why he hadn't been chasing the ladies before now. But nothing worked. He kept hearing her words in his head.

"It's stupid. _She's_ stupid," Martin growled, burying himself deeper in the pile of trash bags. "I've survived by being clever, not by dreaming 'bout nothing."

Well, maybe he could walk the words out. It was still incredibly early, but Martin clearly wasn't going to be sleeping anytime soon, so the young dog squeezed out of the garbage bags, got himself on all four paws, and ran out of the back alley. Martin emerged on a busy sidewalk, but he had gotten pretty good at winding in and out of people's legs, and he was out and about the neighborhood in no time.

Martin didn't know where he wanted to go, because honestly, he had been everywhere at this point. The Bronx was an enormous neighborhood, but eight months had given Martin plenty of time to explore it all. He could navigate the West Bronx with his eyes closed, he'd snuck into the zoo and seen animals stranger than he could have ever imagined, and he'd drunk saltwater from the Hudson on the west and the Atlantic on the east. Sure, it made him sick, but it had been worth it.

So where was he supposed to go when he had been everywhere in the Bronx?

Well, he supposed he would just have to leave the Bronx. The young dog knew every street and back alley in the entire district, could recognize every stop sign and lamp post, and to be honest, he hated it. It was on these streets that he had nearly starved to death as a two-month-old puppy, going two whole weeks without food, and it was on these streets that he had hidden from vicious dogs and homeless men alike. Martin was miserable in the Bronx, but when he took his first step south towards Manhattan, his paws froze.

This was all he had ever known. The world, in the eyes of an eight-month-old mutt, began in a dark alleyway and ended at the Harlem River to the south. There were bridges built for cars to zoom over the water, but none for a young dog. He wanted to take a deep breath and plunge into the unknown, but he was afraid.

And then Martin looked left and saw a red brick building with a narrow alley beside it, an alley that housed a very familiar fire escape. He knew every building in the Bronx, this one better than most. A music table had been left on the rooftop, likely an oversight by the building managers or something a tenant left behind.

He didn't know the exact reason this brick building with its metal fire escape had a music table on the roof, but he hated it. He hated that he couldn't play it right, he hated himself for _wanting_ to play it so much, and he hated the Bronx.

That was all it took to send the mutt running down the street, away from the building and its rooftop piano, and out of Bronx County. In twenty minutes he had passed 161st Street. Another twenty and he had reached Mott Haven. Before long he had reached the edge of the world, and he was staring at Third Avenue Bridge.

The bridge looked like the teeth of a monster, a white steel structure that swallowed people and cars and street dogs who dared to cross. But if he stood on the tip of his paws, he could see the cars coming out the other side. It seemed safe enough. Martin darted across the street, placed a hesitant paw on the sidewalk, and entered.

The bridge did not swallow him, and after a moment of walking, he made it to the other side and found himself in...

"...Manhattan," the dog whispered in awe. This new neighborhood didn't look all that different from the Bronx, but high above the miniscule buildings, so tall they touched the sky, was a cluster of enormous, steel-gray towers. Were these where the people in Manhattan lived? High up in the sky, far above the poor and the homeless and the starving street dogs?

"I'm here... I'm actually here!" Martin laughed, no longer afraid of this strange new part of the city. In fact, he was so excited that he ran down the streets and over the gravelly sidewalk. He saw an unshaven old man, passed out under a piece of cardboard, and he saw people passing him without a second thought. Looks like some things stayed the same wherever he went.

"Heh. _'Course_ I'm here! I can take care of myself now," the young dog smirked, gazing at the steel towers that soared overhead. "I'm an adult now. I can keep myself outta' harm's way, I can steal food for myself, an' I know how to get all tha' girls. What more could a guy want?"

This was the life. Sure, it was tough at times, but he had no one to look after but himself, and thanks to his natural talent as a thief, he did a pretty good job of that. But best of all, he was excellent at conning people. _That_ was how the strong really survived – tricking other dogs, not dreaming about anything.

"Gotta' have my fill of food an' fun every day," Martin grinned, glancing around the busy city streets, "so why not have 'em both at once?"

He took off down the sidewalk, passing all sorts of New Yorkers. Martin saw a gruff man in a navy blue uniform with a silver badge on his chest beating a boy with dark skin over the head. Farther along the street, he saw a broken-down car, left in the middle of the road. He thought it was deserted, but upon closer inspection, he saw that a mother and her puppies were huddled in the driver's seat. She growled at him when he approached, and he sneered because he knew exactly what lay in store for those puppies.

Finally, he found the perfect dog to con. Martin came across him in a back alley, set behind a gloomy gray building, lit by a bright neon sign. The dog looked about the same age as himself, definitely a mutt, but he was mostly collie. He had a mess of black and white fur, brown eyes that darted every which way, and a half-eaten Subway sandwich. Martin's mouth watered when he saw it was a Meatball Marinara.

The collie mutt curled his lip to snarl at him, but before he could, Martin whispered, "_Psst_. You. Yeah, I'm talking to you."

"Do ya' want a fresh one?" the dog growled, stepping in front of his food.

"Oh, I think ya' wanna' hear what I have to say," Martin said with a reassuring grin. "Where'd ya' get that sub, buddy? Trash can, probably. If you're content with that morsel of a meal, then that's fine by me... but I got a plan that could get us both twice that much to eat. Interested?"

"If we could get more food..." the collie mutt pondered, then grinned. "Man, that would be _radical_! Are ya' legit?"

"Legit as legit can get," he nodded, stepping over to sit beside the collie. "What's ya' name, friend?"

"Charley. But ya' can call me Charl."

"Nice to meet ya', Charl," Martin beamed, a pleasant smile on his face. "My name is..." He looked around the alleyway and spotted an broken glass bottle of something labeled Jack Daniel's. "My name is Jack."

"What's tha' plan to get more food, Jack?" Charley asked, leaning his head towards Martin's as they conspired. "I saw some folks a block away eating at a pizza joint. Wanna' hit them up?"

"No way, man. Ya' got me in tha' mood for Subway," Martin laughed, then directed his gaze to the restaurant whose trash cans Charley had stolen his food from. "Ever robbed a restaurant before?"

"A restaurant? Oh, dude, that would be gnarly!" Charley's eyes widened at the mere thought. "How we gonna' pull that off, Jack?"

"First thing we gotta' do is scout out tha' place. See what we're dealing with here," Martin said, then pointing a paw at his newest victim. "That's where _you_ come in, my friend. All I need ya' to do is take a peak inside that Subway an' tell me what ya' see. Y'know, like how many people are in there, where tha' people are standing... that sorta' thing. You follow?"

"What are you gonna' do, then?"

"I'll be stealing our food once ya' scout it out. I think that's pretty generous of me, don't ya'?" Martin said, a smug note in his voice. "I ain't asking very much of ya' here, Charl." He waited for the dog's response, but the collie was quiet.

Charley looked from the Subway restaurant and back to Martin, then turned his head to look at his half-eaten Meatball Marinara and back to Martin... and he growled at him once he pieced it together. "Ya' think I'm some kinda' noob, Jack?"

"Whaddya' talking 'bout?"

"You'll be long gone with my food when I come back outta' that restaurant, won't ya'?" Charley snarled, once again stepping between Martin and the sandwich. "Don't answer that. I can see it in ya' eyes. Ya' trying to con me here."

Martin eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He had been on the streets for three quarters of a year now. He'd seen winter turn to spring and spring to summer, and in that time, he had been honing his skills as a master thief... but this had never happened to him before.

No one had ever seen through one of his cons.

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize for taking such a long break from this story. I've been very focused on <em>Legends of the Lion Kings<em> and studying for my final exams. Finals are done now, so I should have much more time for updates. Also, if any of you are on Tumblr, I now have a blog page for my fanfictions, mostly the Oliver & Company ones, titled "Dodger & Company." My username is also DodgerNYC. I'll be posting pictures of NYC and O&C, as well as chapter updates and story notes. Fun stuff like that.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.**


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